LA X Revised
by Sillycritter
Summary: As the title suggests, I'm revising the whole episode, centering on Sawyer and how he deals with the loss of Juliet. Had to do this myself because Sawyer deserved a character-centric episode *long* before "Recon." Feedback welcome and much appreciated! :
1. Chapter 1

Until now, only one day held the slot for the worst day in James Ford's life: that being the day that his father had shot his mother, then killed himself; leaving James orphaned at only nine years old. Yes, that was a bad day (to say the least, of course); not even nearly dying in a plane crash, left stranded on a deserted island out in the middle of nowhere, could even begin to compare with _that_ day.

Then, there was today...the day that everything went to shit then hell and back, _again_. The day that he decided to agree, like an idiot, to let Jack drop the bomb into the shaft; stupidly thinking that this would make everything "okay". He must have been out of his mind to agree with such a thing, because now, nothing was okay-nor would it ever be again-because the love of his life, Juliet, was dead. Died, in his arms, at the bottom of the shaft, because he'd failed to hold onto her hand...(or, was it because she'd wanted to let go?). Really, it didn't matter anymore, because whatever the reason Juliet fell, she'd fallen, and then, she'd gone and done the most idiotic thing ever-she'd gone and _hit the bomb_. After he'd managed to claw his way down to her, and got her in his arms, this was their conversation: She told him why-because, in her words, if Jack's stupid plan actually worked, they'd go further back in time, to another place in time where they'd never met. He didn't understand it-was it because of what she'd said to him? In the jungle, where they'd painstakingly argued, like two children: "If I never found you," she'd told him tearfully, "then I'd never have to lose you."

Oh, he understood that one, all right: it was why, for so long, he'd never let anyone in. Why he'd been such a loner before ever setting eyes on fellow crash survivor Kate Austen, who had managed to somehow slowly stir his sleeping heart awake. If it wasn't for her, he'd never been able to fall in love with Juliet...and now, a part of him wished he'd never changed his ways-because, just like Juliet had said, if he'd never met and befriended Kate, he never would have known how to love Juliet, and if he hadn't met Juliet, he wouldn't feel what he felt now: a pain in his chest that couldn't be sadness, because it was too great; couldn't be hatred, because it was too strong.

No-not even for the man who he'd blamed for his parents' deaths, had he felt this much anger, this much hate: hate at the God who had let him down once again; hate at himself, for not being strong enough to save her. But, most of all, was his hatred for Jack Shepard: because it was because of Jack Shepard that they had been there in the first place. It was why there had been a bomb at the bottom of the now built, yet completely battered, Swan shaft. It was because of Jack that he held a lifeless body in his arms: a body that had once been alive and full of passion and love; a body whose heart no longer beat against his own.

As soon as he saw the unbelievably crumpled, pathetically wounded look on Jack's otherwise smooth face, the urge to get revenge had never felt so strong. It seized Sawyer with such urgency that his entire body shook with it, and he forced himself to level his eyes with the murderer of his love. "_You_," he hissed accusingly through trembling lips and wired teeth, as he tried not to stagger under the weight of Juliet's limp, swaying body, "_you _did this." It was all he could do not to drop her body to the ground and charge up the ravine and beat the man unconscious.

He could feel Kate's eyes on him, begging him not to fight. "Sawyer," she croaked out pleadingly, but a single look from him silenced her at once.

"_You_ stay out of this," he barked violently at her from the side, without blinking or removing his gaze from Jack's. He didn't care that she was only trying to help; this was one time that she would mind her own damn business. (The irony that an escaped convict was playing mediator did not elude him.) "This is between me and Jack." The whole time he spoke, he did not lift his eyes, and he was even more disgusted when Jack refused to waver. (Did the bastard still think he was in the right somehow here?) Un-fucking-believable.

"Sawyer..." He couldn't believe his own ears: was Jack actually speaking to him? "I'm-"

"Don't you even dare say it, Doc." He was barely able to keep his hands on Juliet now; his fingers were trembling so badly he feared that he might drop her-and with that in mind, he gently, carefully, set her down on the cold hard ground, feeling a sickening, sinking sensation as he bent down with her. For a moment he stayed like that, hands on her waste, haunched over her immobile form. What was she now? A shell of a woman's soul that he loved. Had loved so true and strong, stronger than he'd ever thought was humanly possible, or that he himself was even capable of. Staring at her face, so beautiful and still, he somehow managed to fight back a hollow scream; it remained dormant somewhere in the pit of his soul. Somehow he gathered the strength to touch, with shaking fingers, her soft blond hair. For a moment all he could do was stroke those strands that he knew so well, all the while promising himself not to blink, because if he did, he might lose it altogether-might break down sobbing like a baby, or run around screaming like a lunatic.

"Sawyer...?" Kate was talking to him then, but he couldn't (wouldn't?) listen to her; he was in another world. "...I'll get a blanket and we'll hoist her up with the van."

He didn't respond, too involved with her familiar features to reply-those features that he'd woken up to, every day, for three long years-features that he now must memorize in the back of his brain so that they would be available to him forever.

Meanwhile, back in that unwanted world, Kate called up, "Jin-Go and get a blanket. Leave the chains attached. We'll have to haul her up with the stretcher. "

Leaving him wondering: Blanket...that's good. She looks so cold...

And touching her pale skin, he shivered.

Miles' voice out of nowhere, sounding shell-shocked: "Oh man, she...she's really dead, isn't she...?" Voice trailing meagerly off into silence; nothing like the smart-ass he usually was-and he wanted to shout back, "What's wrong with everybody-can't you see? The whole fucking goddamn world's gone and shot itself to hell!"

But he wouldn't-couldn't, not when Juliet was still beside him-when at least he could still trail the lines of her face with his eyes, and remember how she had cut herself just above the eyebrow (tree branch backfired; one day, running after each other happily through the jungle, on their way to have a picnic on the warf). Amazing, that he could still see it there, even under all the blood...still glistening in the pale moonlight.

Then Jack-that asshole, holier-than-thou King of the Pricks-having the absolute gall to speak suddenly from out of nowhere, "She must have bled to death internally...I can't see any major open wounds."

"You goddamn fucking sonofabitch!" It happened so fast no one knew what was coming-and suddenly he was on top of Jack, hitting him with both fists to the jaw, to the head, anywhere he could-punching, kicking, grabbing, using all of the moves he'd learned in wrestling during high school (before he'd unceremoniously dropped out, too stubborn to care anymore about schooling), and Jack was screaming like a girl, flailing about and screaming bloody murder for his life (_good, good, that was the way he wanted it-let Jack be afraid for once_) and both Kate and Miles were shouting at him to stop, trying to pull him away, but no, he couldn't let that happen (someone had to pay for this), and Jack was crying out and bleeding all over him, and his hands were bloody and getting bruised left and right, but it didn't matter-none of it mattered-because the bastard deserved this, to feel this pain-to feel what Juliet could no longer feel.

Finally, when his arms grew weary from punching and swinging, Miles (with a strength that surprised him) somehow managed to yank him away, and Kate ran to Jack's aid (like always) and he was on his back, the world still spinning, his voice hoarse from shouting and his heart hammering away like a jackhammer in his ears.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Jim!" Miles was shouting at him with a mixture of horror and rage, "what the hell is the matter with you?"

_Our fearless leader's a fraud, Enos...nothing's the matter with me. _

"Dammit, Sawyer! I think my arm is broken!" Jack, this time, whining like the little brat he was. _(Good, it should be...better than a broken head.) _

"Why'd you do that?" Kate was shouting at him now, her turn, lurching him up off the ground towards her and shaking his shoulders violently, "Why'd the hell did you go after him like that, Sawyer?"

"It's all that bastard's goddamn fault!" No use sugarcoating it. (If they didn't get it now, they never would.) It took all the strength he had to lunge for Jack again, but Miles was protecting Jack with his body like an umpire, and Kate had his arms locked with her own (surprisingly, frighteningly strong).

"How? How the hell it is it _his_ fault, Sawyer?" Kate was beside herself as she struggled to hold him down, as he writhed about like a venomous snake in her arms, trying desperately to get himself freed.

"You don't fucking get it, do you, Doc," Sawyer snarled at the man who everyone saw as their leader-a title that he'd always known had been merely situational (after all, before the crash, Jack had been first only a savior by trade).

"So why don't you explain it to me, Sawyer?" To his disbelief Jack actually dared to look him in the eye, his own filled with a guilt that Sawyer knew he didn't yet understand.

It was the exasperation in Jack's voice however that, for Sawyer, was the last fucking straw. Seething, he somehow managed to tear away from Kate's arms with a strength he didn't know he possessed. "Sawyer, stop!" she screamed at him, but he wasn't going to let her talk him out of it-the Doc had to face the truth, once and for all.

Staggering to his feet, he veered like a drunk in Jack's direction and would have slugged him once again, this time with enough force to knock him out for good-if Kate hadn't stepped in between them immediately, sending him a sharp warning look with her eyes. "Stop," she choked out, and he halted at the look in her eyes, and knew that she was not going to let any harm come to Jack Shepard-and it made his head reel with confusion (whose side was she on?). "Son of a bitch," he spat, doubling over as he struggled to keep the nausea at bay. Taking a moment to spit bile at the ground, he stood arched precariously with hands on knees, fearing that if he moved one second he might vomit-and he would not let them see such weakness.

"Sawyer..." Dammit all to hell, but if the bastard wasn't still trying to plea for salvation. "Sawyer...I beg of you," Jack was pleading, his voice halting and weak and sounding small like a child's, "I don't know why you insist on blaming me for this, but...please...will you just give me a chance to-"

"_NO_!" he roared, whirling around to face Jack who stumbled back in sheer terror (_oh, the glory of seeing that look in his eyes, that utter fear, that animal-like fear, yes, the man was human, the secret is out_) "You don't get another chance, do you hear me?" he bellowed, "because a woman is dead-all because you decided to test fate with our lives! You didn't even stop to think _once _about what the consequences would be if it all went wrong, _did_ you?" he yelled, his voice rising with each moment he spoke, narrowing the space between himself and Jack as Jack continued to back away (Kate backing away with him, not removing herself from the middle). "Now she's dead, Jack! Look at her!" he demanded at the top of his voice (in spite of the searing pain in his throat) and with all his might tried to shove past Kate, but it was useless; she was too strong for him, and it left him hungrier for blood more so than before. "_Look at her_!" he screamed, but Jack, yellow-bellied, gutless Jack, leader of all, refused to look.

"I..." A maddening, hopeless sob escaped from Jack's throat. "I can't..."

Before Kate could react, Sawyer darted around her and seized Jack's neck, threatening to pierce his throat with his fingertips, shoving his head in the direction of Juliet's body. "Look!" he shouted. "LOOK!"

"Stop it Sawyer!" Somewhere to his left, Kate was screaming, but it was all in vain.

"I said _look_, dammit!" He was going to hold Jack's head still until the end of time, if only the bastard would look-

-Then it happened, the impact of a pummeling fist from out of nowhere, and he was lying back down on the ground in a daze. Someone had punched him, made him lose his hold on Jack. "Who just punched me," he choked out, "who the hell just goddamn punched me!"

Somehow he managed to struggle to his feet and found himself staring wide eyed at Kate, arms still raised and prepared to fight back if need be. _Kate?_ He couldn't believe it. She had punched him? Staring back at her speechless, he desperately tried to settle his breathing, not sure now what hurt the most-his broken heart or his wounded pride. "What the hell, Kate," he demanded hoarsely.

She said nothing, but her eyes shone with tears. (_Good that she regretted it. She ought to feel bad. God it hurts. Now she hurts. Good...good.)_

He was vaguely aware that somewhere to his right, Jack was crying uncontrollably like a pathetic, helpless little girl. For a moment he felt a sickening pang of pity, but quickly bit it back down and looked abruptly away. _Screw you, Jack. _

Never before in his life had he ever felt so betrayed. By the world, by God, by Kate... and, last but not least, by himself. They'd let him down, these people he trusted-and what was worse, he'd let himself down. He'd let go.

"Go to hell," he heard himself say then, not seeing Kate even as she stood with tears slipping silently down both cheeks, "Go to hell...all of you."

"Sawyer-I'm sorry-"

He didn't bother to dignify that with a response. Meanwhile, Jack continued to sob brokenly, and he tried not to listen to Kate desperately trying to shush and console him.

"Jim..." It was Miles who spoke next, haltingly, uncertainly. "Jim...he didn't _mean_ to-"

Sawyer just stared at him in utter bafflement and amazement. "Et tu, Enos?" was all he could manage to say. (To his disgust, Miles merely hung his head in a mixture of confusion, guilt and shame.)

There was nothing left to do at that moment but to turn away and run.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sawyer, where are you going-_Sawyer_!"

He could hear Kate shouting as he ran through the jungle, running as fast as his weakened knees and battered heart would allow. Ran forever (or so it felt), ran until his legs gave out, and he fell to the ground in a pathetic heap, scarred by the branches that scraped his face and side, leaving trails of blood running like streams down his shirt, down his thigh. No matter-he didn't feel it. Couldn't feel it; couldn't feel anything anymore. He might as well have been like Juliet, back there on the ground where he had left her, like a coward. He might as well just float away.

Trying to catch his breath he turned on his back and lay there, staring up at the midnight sky-exactly the same sky that he and Juliet used to stare up at, together. How long ago that time felt now (and also, yesterday). Was it yesterday-or thirty years ago? (And did it even matter?) His head was spinning and, on top of everything else that hurt, his head felt as though he'd been beaten bloody instead of Jack.

_Get up you sorry sonofabitch. _

He knew he should go back and do what needed to be done: bury her. He should be the one. They were lovers for eternity; having gone through thick and thin together. (Who would have ever thought he'd be the sappy, romantic type.) He should be back there, putting her to rest. Yet here he was, lying in the jungle, having worn himself out after running like a wanted man.

_He used to make her a warm cup of chamomile tea and rub her feet with a soft creamy lotion. _

Dammit! What was he doing here? _Jack_ was the wanted man, not him. _Jack_ should be out here feeling sorry for himself, because that's what Jack did: weak, self-pitying. He'd known the man to be so vulnerable at times he sometimes wondered how he'd ever led anyone.

Except, he knew why he was out there, and where he was going. He would go back after and then he would bury her-do what had to be done. He'd have to be quick because they would be looking for him soon (Kate always followed after eventually). They wouldn't immediately however (after all there was Jack to tend to, and Sayid was injured; possibly near death.)

He only hoped that the darkness would allow him some time before they followed his trail; he was far too tired to make a decoy.

OOO

The Barracks were quiet as a tomb in the moonlight. The moon was still high in the sky-high and full; night still had a few hours to stall with until morning. Everything appeared magnified. The houses seemed to loom before him. "New Otherton"-the Dharma village where he had once ran a dignified security system and had been known as a respected citizen-was now a ghost town, reminding him that everyone had already perished because of Linus and the mysterious, elusive creature they all called the "Smoke Monster". That life was now simply a memory (or was it only a dream?). For a while he merely wondered aimlessly through the little town, both horrified and mystified by the changes. He saw the place where he used to pick all kinds of wildflowers to bring inside the house (Juliet had loved flowers-especially sunflowers, and of these there were always plenty). Now, all that was there were a bunch of overgrown weeds. _How fucking poetic. _

He found the playground where he and Juliet used to sit with Amy Goodspeed on Sundays and watch her son Ethan play (later, he would become the same man who would try to kill Charlie after kidnapping Claire). For a second he gingerly sat down one the swing set-the same swing set that she used to sit on, beside him (together, they would swing together, like they did as children). This is where most men would break, but he was not most men. He was strong. (Listened as his father killed his mother in the next room, and then killed himself in the same room) and it had taken several therapists beating it out of him-about maybe over a year-to actually, finally, cry about it.) He hadn't cried since, except that night he had-breaking down like a baby, as he'd sat there holding Juliet's limp body in his arms after she died. He had hardly been aware of the tears or the sobs, and nothing about it at all had been cathartic. All he knew was that Juliet was gone, and that he was alone-but wasn't that always the way of it? He'd been alone all his life...until this Godforsaken Island had gone and messed it all up.

And here he was, once more, alone again. Too worn out to cry. Too worn out to scream. And at that moment, he wished he was like other men-that he could pound the ground, cry, shout and scream. Scream for the woman he had loved and lost: a story as old as the sands of time. How cruel that her name was Juliet-because if only life were like a play. For if it was, he would have died for her, if it meant that she could live.

OOO

Meanwhile, back at the Swan hatch, Jack was tending to Sayid's wounds as the rest stayed out of the way, huddled together in the van.

"I wonder where he went," said Hurley, who sat clutching a guitar case that Miles kept eying.

"Why the hell do you have a guitar, man?" asked Miles, frowning with both distaste and amusement. "Kinda late for a singout don't you think?"

"Not a guitar," Hurley answered simply, eyes pointed somberly north (and that was that).

"Hurley," said Jack, looking in much better shape as he leaned inside one of the windows, "You said that Jacob told you about this Temple? What's at the Temple that could help Sayid?"

"Guess we'll just have to go there and find out," said Hurley with a commonplace look in his eye, which surprised everyone. Meanwhile causing Miles to wonder: _Since when did the big guy turn into a wise old man who knew more about the island than all of us?_

"I wish there was something more I can do for him," Jack said miserably, "but he's going to bleed out if Jacob can't help him."

"Jacob can help," insisted Hurley with conviction (and never before had Jack heard his friend sound so serious; he couldn't help but believe him). "He told me he could."

Miles was a little confused as to why Jacob would only speak with Hurley, and finally decided to ask him so. "What makes you so special, Tubby?" he asked sourly, speaking not to Hurley but looking out the opposite window.

For some reason Hurley waited until Jack was gone, before leaning in conspiratorially and adding in a hushed voice, "He's dead, Dude."

This time Miles was floored. Up until Hurley, he had been the only one who could speak to dead people. Why was it only Hurley who Jacob had come to? It didn't make sense; he'd been speaking to dead people for years (granted, he'd mainly used his gift to exploit the dead one's families, conning them out of hundreds of dollars while most of the time, instead of speaking to anyone-the ghosts had moved on-he simply just dicked around). "How?" he asked doubtfully. "I thought he was immortal," he added, unable to hide the disappointment from under his breath.

Looking out the window, Hurley was silent for an unbearably long amount of time before he responded, "Nope. Not immortal. He's just very hard to kill." After another moment he added flatly, "The only way anyone could kill Jacob was to burn him alive, and that's what the Smoke Monster did, because the Smoke Monster hated him to death for keeping him trapped on the island."

Miles had a thousand more questions by then but all he could do was stare in amazement at Hurley-who had once shown him his own written version of Star Wars-telling him about the man who had, until now, been only a mystery. _And this is the same guy who didn't understand time-travel? _

It was hard to believe that life could get any stranger.

OOO

This was home:

A single-floor house in the center of the village, pale yellow like all the others-now, even more yellow that the paint was chipping and pealing, not to mention that the foundation itself was falling apart. (Several cracks on the outer walls were visible to Sawyer from where he stood bathed by moonlight; the rest of the foundation lay hidden in shadow, as if to say, _Forbidden: your presence is not wanted here. _

The door looked as though it were about to fall off the hinges and the once shiny brass handle, now rusted, rattled slightly within his grasp.

Almost instantaneously an unbearably musty smell hit his nose and he had to fight the urge to grimace as he further ventured into the house. There was the couch he used to read on, battered and worn. There was the kitchen sink where she used to clean the dishes. (Sometimes, they'd clean them together, laughing like children as they sprayed each other with water and doused each other with soap bubbles). His eyes traveled continuously in an arc around the room until they found the table: which was still laid out with their breakfast plates. Two glasses still containing what was left of their orange juice. It made his head swim to think that this was the last place he had relaxed with Juliet before...before what? When had he decided to get them both involved again in this insanity? (Oh yes-they had been sent into exile.)

Dark, so dark everywhere-but it didn't matter; his head pounded like thunder. His legs were growing weaker and he abruptly sank down into one of the kitchen chairs, staring numbly at the glasses. He might have fallen into a stupefied slumber if his focus hadn't settled on the glass that she had used-and the lipstick that caught his eyes hadn't made his breath catch, or his heart start beating a thousand miles a minute. _Lipstick. Her _lipstick. The residue from her lips which had once so tenderly touched his own. His mind seized up and he lunged for the glass, taking it in his trembling hands. His heart swelled with sadness and he felt himself breaking. _Goddamn world! _Why did life have to be so cruel? Why did such a good woman have to die? Why must he be left alone all over again?

Before he could stop himself he'd hurled the glass against the wall where it immediately shattered. Glass flew everywhere and he wasn't sure why but he felt an immense satisfaction, so he grabbed his own glass next and threw that too-then one plate, and another, and then the cream, and the silverware. _Damn but that felt good. _Wild eyed he looked around for something else to throw, and saw a tall bottle of vintage Dharma wine, cork off, and threw that too, swung it around his head like a lasso before letting it go, thrilled as it hit the wall like all the others and broke off in several pieces and all directions.

He threw everything he could find: plates, knives, more glasses, until there was nothing left in sight that could break. The floor was littered with sharp debris and he stood over it with a strange sense of pride before collapsing onto his knees on the floor. That was when it hit him: these were her things that he'd broken. Her things he'd damaged-and his heart, what was left of it, shattered like the glass, and he was doubled over on the floor, sobbing. Sobbing, but barely aware of his sobs, because the only thing that mattered was what a selfish asshole he was-having just destroyed what was left of the woman he loved. He didn't care how pathetic he sounded-no one was there to hear him, no one was there to care. He sobbed until he could sob no more, and finally he fell asleep, curled up in a fetal position on the floor, and the last thing he saw was the broken shards of glass that he had created out of destruction, glinting back at him like a thousand fallen stars.


	3. Chapter 3

Waking up to the cold hard floor pressing into his side, without feeling the warmth that usually trickled in through their bedroom window, was enough for Sawyer to know that the events of yesterday wasn't a dream. Reality was like a slap in the face and the slap was so strong he barely felt the sting. Only a few times in his adult years had he drank in the wee hours to calm his nerves (one of them, being the day he'd had to mentally and emotionally relive in 1976, the tragic day of his parents' deaths). _That_ had been torture, but at least Juliet had been there to help him through it, or at least be there for whatever support she could provide. But this-no, this was a true waking nightmare. Juliet was gone, and where the once seemingly endless supply of her unconditional love used to be, there was now nothing but a huge gaping hole in his chest. Staggering into the kitchen, he managed to find an old bottle of whiskey. Without even giving it a second thought he immediately poured himself a full glass and fell into the kitchen chair, staring at the useless mess he'd made the previous night, finding it amazing that he didn't have to drink at all to find himself already halfway into a stupor.

Time-traveling was an exhausting excursion but God, what he wouldn't give to go back in time again; to right all the wrongs he'd done, to have avoided talking to or even looking at Kate Austen at all costs. What had she said, those words that had been like a knife through his chest? Her reason for setting the bomb off in the first place (the stupidest thing she'd ever done, and Juliet was not a stupid woman)? Oh, yes, now he remembered her exact words: "If I never met you, then I never have to lose you." Sadly, he'd known exactly what she meant; it was why, for so many years, he hadn't let anyone in; kept everyone at arm's length (and damn them to hell if they tried). When he and Kate had first met, she was right to think him a pig, because that was how he'd been towards women-seeing them as a quick lay, and nothing more. Then Kate had somehow broken through that barrier, gotten him to care about her, and did something to him that had left him reeling. He'd tried to wait for her to come back, for a year but it was Juliet who had helped him move on. Helped him forget about Kate and everyone else who he couldn't save; who could have been dead, for all he knew. Then Kate Austen had miraculously walked back into his life-and did the exact opposite of what she'd done in the first place. She'd ruined everything: gotten Juliet to think that his heart was in the wrong place, when all it had ever been was with _her_.

Damn rock...if he was anything like John Locke, he would have thought that the island itself didn't want him to be happy. People like Locke and Jack seemed to think that the Island was a living, breathing thing. He almost wished it was, because then he could actually go up to whoever (or whatever) was behind all the nonsense (maybe the friggin Wizard of Oz?) and demand an explanation why he should deserve to suffer so much, when he'd already suffered so much already. (As though losing both your parents at age eight, in such a traumatic way, wasn't enough pain to endure).

So here he was, over ten years later, still hating the world and feeling sorry for himself. What had changed? Everyone he loved he lost. Every chance at happiness he tried to gain was thwarted. Why bother even trying anymore? He was done.

BANG BANG BANG! The knock at the door came with such abruptness that Sawyer nearly jumped. (What the goddamn holy hell.) "Sawyer! Open up! It's Kate and Miles."

_Sonuvabitch. _Of course it was Kate. She always followed him wherever she went, like a little lost puppy. What the hell did she want? All he wanted was to be left alone in his misery. Why couldn't everyone just let him be?

Instead of answering right away, he downed the whole glass of whiskey and stumbled his way to the door, his legs already turning to rubber from the night spent on the floor. He opened it up to find both Kate and Miles staring back at him expectantly, grim look worry covering both of their faces-joined with an obvious sympathy that he did not want. (It was the same kind of sympathy that the people at his parents' funeral gave him: looks of pity and doubt that he would come out of this experience ever being or feeling normal ever again.)

"Hey," said Kate, when he didn't say anything, "You okay?"

"I look it?" He knew he was being an ass but he didn't care.

"Look, Jim," said Miles (and Sawyer couldn't help but smile inwardly with bitter amusement at the uncharacteristic uncertainty in the man's voice) "We were just worried about you, man." He noticed that Miles couldn't seem to look him in the face, and he hated how the man was treating him as though he might break any second.

"Well, I'll be just fine," he snapped, trying to ignore that his tone was much harsher than he'd intended. "Shouldn't you be more worried about the guy who's dying?" he added tersely, suddenly having remembered Sayid.

"He's with Jack," said Kate softly, and while he knew he'd hurt her feelings, he wasn't about to start feeling sorry for her. "They took him to the Temple."

"Well y'all are gonna miss the big show if you don't get a move-on." With that, he simply staggered back into the house, hoping that at least Miles would get the hint, and encourage Kate to go with him.

"What are you doing here, Jim?" Apparently, Miles was still in the dark. (Sonuvabitch, he'd thought for sure Miles was smarter than that.) "You gonna drink yourself to death?"

_So what if I am? _He wanted to say this but that was none of their business. "Feel free to help yourselves," he announced indifferently to his obnoxiously ever-present guests. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting visitors...or I would have gotten the maid to clean house." Without warning he stopped short as he felt a sharp pang in his gut-his own words reminding him that, once upon a time, it had been Juliet who had done most of the cleaning; not a maid.

"What the-" A loud crunch brought Sawyer's attention to Miles, who had discovered the scattered shards of glass. "Did you do this, man?" he asked, appalled as he stared with baffled wonder at Sawyer.

"It's my house, ain't it?" he growled impatiently. (Why all the judgment? They should simply be glad he hadn't taken one of the shards and pierced his own heart with it.)

"_Was_ your house," Miles declared, which immediately caused his body to stiffen.

"What the hell did you say?" He drew closer to the stout Asian man from Encino to where he was dangerously towering over him.

For the first time since they'd met, Miles looked afraid. "Was...your house?" he responded, somewhat weakly—and it was clear to Sawyr that he knew that he had crossed a line.

"You sayin' this ain't my house boy?" He was seconds away from losing it-any second, he could be beating Miles senseless.

"Jim, I just meant that the Initiative-"

"You better think real careful about what you say next," Sawyer growled, "because _not_ thinking about it-well, that's how we make our enemies."

Finally Miles did the smart thing: he feigned ignorance. "Okay, Jim," he said with a shake of the head and a shrug. "Have it your way."

"Right," Sawyer muttered, turning away as a sickening sensation gripped his insides. "My way."

"Sawyer-we're only trying to help," Kate said, her voice soft with guilt.

"Look like I already said, _I'm fine_!" Before he knew it he was shouting, turning on her so fast that she jumped, looking terror-stricken, and he didn't feel bad one bit; if that's what made her go, then good. She should be terrified. "So go on your merry little way and worry about yourselves. Don't worry bout little ol' me." Instead of waiting for a response, he returned to the table and his drink.

He kept on drinking, even as Kate sniffled and Miles remained silent, watching him through crestfallen eyes.

He didn't expect what happened next. Miles strode forward, snatched the drink from his hand-as well as the bottle-marched towards the sink, and proceeded to dump the contents out of both with surprising speed.

"What the hell?" He was on his feet shouting in protest but nothing seemed to make Miles stop, as he went about rummaging through the cabinets, locating all the liquor and dumping them as well. Sawyer rushed at him, trying to grab the bottles out of his hands, but Miles was a tough little fucker and it seemed nothing could get in his way.

"I didn't let my mom do this to herself after my Dad left-and I'm sure as hell not letting you do it either," Miles said as he yanked the bottles , one by one, out of Sawyer's hands and hurled them against the far wall, where they smashed into a million pieces like all the others.

"DAMMIT! STOP IT!" Not the liquor. Not his prized collection. He and Juliet had selected them all by hand.

"Forget it, Jim," Miles shouted over his own screams of desperation. _SMASH! _Another bottle lost. "I'm not letting you do this." _CRASH! _A hundred dollars' worth, down the drain.

"Jesus-who the fuck put you in charge?" Sawyer watched helplessly as Miles shattered the last two bottles, and collapsed into the chair, feeling as though with each impact, his heart had broken just a little bit more (if this was even possible).

"Myself," Miles stated coldly, sounding strangely pleased. Feeling seconds away from puking his guts out, Sawyer couldn't bring himself to face the satisfaction on the man's face that he knew was there. Instead, he found himself staring at Kate, who was watching with wide eyes, red-rimmed from tears. She looked as though her heart was shattered too, and this moment reminded him of one of the chapters' titles in his favorite book, "Watership Down": "_You can't imagine it unless you've been there_".


End file.
